


Distance

by assholeachilleus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Martin is really going thru it lads, Martin's family is Welsh bc i say so, and then start the apocalypse but it isn't mentioned and we don't talk about it, but it's fine bc Jon is here to save the day, jonmartin aren't explicitly romantic but he does pull Martin from the Lonely so, v v brief mention of death but blink and you'll miss it, when will ur soulmate ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28196502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assholeachilleus/pseuds/assholeachilleus
Summary: Whilst in the Lonely, Martin reflects on how he's been distanced his entire life, and the events that have led him to the point that he's at. But it's all okay because Jon is there to save him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, after reading Jonmartin fic all weekend, I've decided to thoroughly project onto Martin, writing something that is horrifically self-indulgent and definitely has too many short sentences. This is my first fic for TMA so don't judge me too harshly jdjsfhjhfjd. Enjoy!

Martin Blackwood hadn't always known loneliness, he had known distance though. And maybe, ultimately, that was the same thing. 

Growing up in rural Herefordshire, his tiny village had been sparsely populated to say the least. The only regular human contact he had outside his parents were the two residents who lived either side of their cosy terrace cottage.

Mrs Hill, an elderly widow who liked to make Martin tea and sneak him a biscuit when his mum wasn't looking, with her kind blue eyes and grey hair that cascaded delicately over her frail shoulders, was the closest thing he had to a grandmother. He hadn't known his own grandparents as they'd decided to stay in Wales when his mother relocated, and her steely gaze and curled lip when he'd asked about them one time left his ears hot and his chest burning. He never asked again. 

Mr and Mrs Furrows lived on the other side, a smiling couple with weather-worn skin from working outdoors, who always seemed to be off somewhere. The kind of people who couldn't just sit around, but occupied their time with caring for their animals and going on weekend hikes. They'd been pleasant enough, but their ritualistic habit of getting up at sunrise to tend animals and perpetually busy lifestyles meant Martin never crossed the perfect white fence that enclosed their home. That, and the fact that every time he passed the gate, a cacophony of howling and barks rang out into the gently cooling spring air. Martin wasn't scared of dogs, but his eight year old mind couldn't realistically guess at the number of dogs they kept, and his wild childish imagination conjured up horrific fantasies of a pack of wild dogs chasing him across the endless fields, wild grass stinging his face, his shouts for help ringing out unheard into the silent night. Needless to say, when walking into the village he gave their unimposing cottage a wide berth. 

If the village had been sparsely populated, that was nothing compared to the primary school. A smattering of students from the local village attended, which made a grand total of thirty students in the whole school. Classes felt a juxtapositional mix of cloyingly claustrophobic and silently empty. He didn't make many friends. 

Village life dwindled in the sense that the population stayed stagnant. No one new ever moved in, the residents all happily fixed in their daily routines and monotonous jobs. Occasionally the population would shift. It was tangible in the air. The adults would have their hushed conversations, exchanging pointed glances, and rushing in and out of each others houses like ants in a colony. Then, a blanket of hush would fall over the village, the smell of damp earth and salty tears would hang in the air like rain caught mid fall, the church bells would toll in sombre mourning. And that would be it. One less in the village. The distance grew. 

Martin would say up until the age of ten he was happy. Sure, he didn't really have any friends, and the distance stung his throat and settled icy in his chest. He got used to it. Accommodated it. Even got to the stage of greeting it like an old friend. 

But then everything went wrong. His mum got sick and finances made living in the village a whisper away from unattainable. Then his dad left and it became impossible. So they moved to the city, Manchester first and London later. He shared a cramped flat with his mum, far too aware of the space he took up. Selfish really. Especially when money was so tight. So Martin made himself small. Curled up. Showed his mum he could accommodate this new life. Adapt. She didn't appreciate it. 

City life posed a new form of distance for Martin. Sure, now he was constantly surrounded by people, all rushed walking and bustled shoulders and quick, insincere apologies barely above a whisper. But he was invisible. Unnoticed. No one cared. There was no friendly greeting asking how his parents were when he went to the local shop. No one made politely forced small talk on the bus. No one smiled at him, or made him tea, or snuck him biscuits. Martin had people everywhere, his class had more students than his entire village school had. But that same distance curled around his neck like a noose, laying heavy, with the threat of pulling taut. 

And that was how Martin went through his early teens and adolescents. Feeling like a ghost, an imposter in his own life. His mother continued to berate him for everything. 

You take up too much space, Martin.

You don't understand boundaries, Martin. 

You annoy people and latch on too quickly, Martin. 

It went on.

Going to university was a breath of fresh air. But even that had turned stagnant and icy. He'd dropped out to care for his quickly sickening mother, not that she appreciated it when she screamed at him to put her into a home so she wouldn't have to look at what a disappointment he was. 

And then she died. And the distance grew. At that point Martin had lost so many people, Tim, Sasha, Jon, he barely even felt the grief pierce his accustomed numbness. The tears dried before they even had a chance to fall. 

But then Jon was back. And that was worse. Because if you lived your life in cold suffocating darkness, you would never know any different. Never be aware that alternatives existed. But if someone suddenly showed you the sun, let your bask in the warmth and heat it provided, you were reminded of what you didn't have. What you couldn't have. So he retreated further into the oddly comforting cold, greeting it like an old friend. 

Martin Blackwood hadn't always known loneliness. He had known distance though, and maybe that was worse. 

"Martin?" Martin blinked. Was someone calling him? Impossible. No one cared. No one even knew where he was. 

"Martin?" The voice came again, closer, more insistent. A note of panic and something else he couldn't identify. 

A figure materialized through the cloying fog. Small in a way Martin could never be. All sharp angles and harsh edges and delicate features. Martin felt something flicker in his chest. It was barely there. An ember of a spark. But it was starting to grow. 

"Jon?" His own voice sounded far away, dream-like, and almost inaudible. Almost, but not quite. 

And then warm hands were cupping his face. And a familiar smooth voice was saying his name over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer. Like Martin would disappear if he stopped. 

The hands burned where they made contact. The sharp prickling of pins and needles. The crackling embers of a starting fire. Martin shuddered, but refused to recoil. The warmth was comforting, the burn resided, and he was looking into Jon's worried eyes, burning with an intensity Martin had never seen directed at him. Jon took Martin's icy hand, holding one in both his smaller ones, rubbing so ferociously Martin thought his hand might combust. The warmth prickled and curled like smoke around his hand and down his arm until he felt it jolt in his chest. The ember had turned into a full on fire as Jon led Martin out of the Lonely, and Martin, for the first time in a very long time, smiled. 

Martin Blackwood hadn't always known loneliness. He had known distance though. But not anymore.


End file.
